Authors: Susan Zettell
Kathy was too young to say, it's you she needs, but she thinks it now. Driving along the 401 with Pete, she understands why her father took off every Sunday without them, but she wishes he hadn't. She remembers standing beside the car as he slowly pulled away, watching the car move down the street, watching it turn the corner. Waiting in case he changed his mind just this one time and came back to get her.
It wasn't fair to Connie, and particularly to Kathy. She longed to be with him, for relief from Shelly's crying and her mother's distress at not being able to stop it, and for the possibility of happiness.
Sundays became the emblem of how their lives had changed. Connie went by herself to early Mass, hoping Shelly would sleep until she got back. Then Charlie and Kathy went to Mass, the only time they spent alone after Shelly. Kathy sat in the front seat where the sweet spice of her father's aftershave and the chemical astringency of their freshly polished shoes mingled. She looked at his hands on the wheel, ragged fingernails, a healing scrape across his knuckles, or she looked sideways out the window. They drove in silence, because the drive was so short, because the quiet was so blessed. They shared that.
The drive after Mass was also gorgeously silent. At breakfast together they ate quickly, to get the meal over with. For a time Connie tried to draw Charlie out, but when he talked, Shelly screamed, for the sound of his voice made Shelly cry harder. He would stop talking, carry his dishes to the sink, rinse them and stack them in the drainer. He'd sit on the steps near the back door and put on his shoes. He'd grab his jacket and call to them, “I won't be long.”
It was a lie. It was always long.
Though everyone calls it Malton, it's now officially the Toronto International Airport. And when Yorkdale Shopping Centre opened, it seemed as though Toronto would engulf the countryside, stretch right out to Mississauga and then on to Varnum. But it hasn't. Horses still graze in lush pasture, twitching flies away, and corn still grows bright green against the dark earth. Neglected apple trees form leafy parasols over encroaching vetch and clover. The orange and yellow heads of day lilies float on their stems and old lilacs bushes shimmer beside tumble-down summer kitchens and the foundations of old barns. Fat Holsteins stand motionless but for their swishing tails. Giant elms line laneways.
The air is hotter near the airport. Kathy's back is stuck to the car seat and her waistband is soaked with sweat. She leans her head out the window; the wind whips her hair, pounds her skin, but it isn't cooling.
She's dressed simply: blue jeans, a pale blue peasant blouse with white embroidery across the yoke, leather sandals. She'd changed a dozen times before they left, wanting to look good without appearing to be trying. Pete's wearing what he always wears, blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He's driving barefoot, a pair of dusty plastic thongs, the imprint of his feet worn into them, on the floor near the brake pedal. His hair is tousled, his cheeks smooth, his fingernails white on dark summer-tanned hands. Her stomach churns when she's near him; she's sure she'd faint if he touched her, a swoon. Like a swathed Victorian lady having tea with her betrothed whom she isn't allowed to touch. Brush a sleeve, swoon. Scent of tobacco and sweat, swoon. Fingertips meet, faint dead away.
It's erotic, not touching Pete, an aphrodisiac. The slightest possibility of contact, skin to skin, and her groin aches. So she avoids him, is never alone with him if she can help it. Until now. A car is a very small space. Kathy presses herself against her door, keeping the maximum distance between them. When she thinks about touching Pete, she thinks about Penny and Rhettbutler, and what comes after. She hates it, of course, hates how helpless she feels to the attraction, and she's ashamed before the fact. But at her most honest, she wants Pete and the anything-can-happen danger of his touch.
“You're positive we're nowhere near the crash site?” Kathy asks.
A week ago, on its approach to the airport, an engine fell off a DC-8 and the pilot had tried to land without it. The plane crashed, killing 108 people. They're squeamish, so many people dead, but they're more afraid the area will be teeming with police, investigators and reporters. The plane went down in a farmer's garden, not right at the airport, but the proximity of so many officials has them edgy.
“I checked,” Pete says. “It's on another approach.”
Reassured, she turns up the radio because she doesn't want to talk. When “Ohio” comes on, they both begin to hum. They look at each other, smile, and sing along.
“Kathy,” Pete says when the song is over, “turn the radio off.”
Kathy does.
“Give me your hand,” he says, glancing at the road then at her.
Kathy looks at Pete. They both look forward at the road. Kathy closes her eyes and slides her hand over the hot seat. She stops moving her hand when Pete covers it with his. He slips his thumb into her palm and strokes the top of her hand with his fingers.
It lasts only a minute or two, until they exit the highway and Pete simply slides his hand from hers. When she opens her eyes, they're on a gravel road along the perimeter of the airport. They pull onto a grassy shoulder and Pete turns off the motor. The air is still, the quiet, sudden; the engine ticks in the heat.
There are several parked cars, small knots of people talking near them. A couple sits in folding chairs on the edge of the grass, drinking Coke. All watch the runway.
Beside Kathy and Pete, a man and girl sit on a plaid blanket spread over the hood of their car. The binoculars the girl wears around her neck are so heavy they make her slouch; her head sticks out like a turtle's.
She has dandelion-fluff hair that lifts on the breeze, a halo of down that settles when the wind does. The man takes the binoculars but doesn't remove the strap from her neck. When pulled sideways, the girl leans her elbow on his thigh and holds her head in her hand. The man checks his watch, and after looking through the binoculars, he sets them gently in the girl's lap again, and she straightens and resumes her turtle stance.
“Any second now,” he tells her.
As if on cue, an enormous rumbling approaches. Getting louder and closer, the crush of pulsating noise instinctively makes them duck. The jet looms above them, huge, thundering. It is pure shuddering noise, and then it is gone. They turn to watch it rise and disappear in the distance.
Kathy turns to tell Pete what a thrill it was, when a man who has been leaning on the door of his car pushes himself away from it and walks toward them. A lunch box â black metal with a rounded top â swings in his hand. His stride is so measured, so precise, his arms move in such long graceful rhythmical arcs, that it is like watching a dance.
“Glad you could make it,” the man says to Pete. “It's a busy place since the crash.” He shrugs towards the people. “Half of them are vultures.”
Pete doesn't say anything. Kathy notices he's holding a large brown paper bag. She can't remember seeing it in the car. She also notices how handsome the man talking to Pete is.
“I brought lunch. Might not be enough for your girlfriend.” The man nods towards Kathy, then turns to look at her, really look at her. His eyes give nothing away. He turns back to Pete and says, “I wasn't expecting this.”
A blush rises from Kathy's chest, up her neck and onto her cheeks. The man holds the lunch box out to Pete.
“Hey, man, it's cool. She's cool,” Pete says. He holds the bag out. “Look, I brought lunch, too. Do you want to trade? I love a surprise.”
The words are cordial, but there's no friendliness in their tone or delivery. The men's bodies force relaxation. Motors turn over, dust kicks up from wheels as the other plane watchers drive away. The white-haired girl slides off the hood of the car, binoculars bumping when she lands. The man vaults forward. He grabs the blanket, squarely folds it and tucks it in the back seat. The girl looks sideways at Kathy as they drive way. Kathy smiles, but the girl doesn't. She holds Kathy's eyes, blinks and abruptly turns away.
Lunch Box Man's white T-shirt shows off the muscles of his taut abdomen. He's wearing black jeans and black leather shoes. The shoes have rounded toes and thick brown soles, unexpectedly comfortable looking. He's a head taller than Pete, and aggressively handsome. There's a shock of white in his otherwise black hair. Noticing it, Kathy sees his skin is pockmarked, and this one imperfection is what makes him seem perfect. Pete takes the lunch box and hands him the paper bag.
“Thanks, man,” Pete says. “No peanut butter, I hope. I hate peanut butter.”
“Naw,” the man says. “Tuna salad. I believe it's your favourite.”
“Great,” Pete says, grinning. “You believe right, love that tuna salad.”
“I'll save this for later,” the man says holding up the paper bag. “I have to get back to work. See you next week?”
“Anything you say,” Pete says. “Hey, man, enjoy,” he calls. The man is already walking away.
“Oh, I will,” he says, but he doesn't turn to them. As he gets in his car, a jet thumps them with noise and wind. They duck, he doesn't.
“Who was that?” Kathy asks when they can be heard.
“I have no idea,” Pete says. “Never asked; don't want to know.”
“Shit,” Kathy says. “It's like Clint Eastwood. A bit more dust, a serape or two, some sinister music.”
A car drives up and parks in front of them. A man in a business suit gets out. He's holding opera glasses.
“Let's get out of here. Too many eyes; the crash has me spooked,” Pete says. “It's bringing out the weirdos, the ones who want to be first on the scene and get their pictures in the paper. Usually it's only us regulars, the guy with the little girl, they're here every week. And the Coke drinkers with the lawn chairs. Too many new faces today, freaks me out.”
“Hey,” the man in the suit calls to them. “Were you here when the jet crashed?”
Pete puts his hand up, a gesture first defensive, then dismissive. “No, man,” he says, and he gets into the car.
“Get in now,” he says to Kathy very quietly. She's standing next to his door. Then loudly, out the window, he yells, “Didn't see it, man.”
By the time Kathy's in the car, Pete has it started and in gear. The man steps forward and walks parallel to the car as they drive past. Kathy turns to see what will happen. He follows them, stops, and then shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his car. When they turn onto the main road, Pete picks up the lunch box that's been sitting on the seat between them and hands it to Kathy.
“Open it,” he says. She opens it and there's a sandwich neatly wrapped in waxed paper. She unwraps it.
“Tuna salad,” she says sniffing, and holds it out to Pete.
“Yeah, I know,” Pete says and he takes an enormous bite. “My favourite,” he mumbles through the food. “What's under the sandwich?” Kathy puts the sandwich back in the paper and sets it on the seat.
“Cigarettes; they're open.” Kathy holds the package out to him, Player's plain, and he puts it in his shirt pocket.
“What else?” Pete asks.
“Dessert maybe?” She lifts another waxed paper parcel out of the box, this one heavier than the first, and opens it. Wrapped in clear plastic and taped with Scotch tape is an enormous chuck of hashish.
“Fuck me gently,” she whispers. She rewraps the hash, tucks it back in the lunch box, and closes the clasp. “If this is your lunch, what's his?”
“Chicken salad.” Pete's eating the tuna salad. “On cracked wheat. That's what he likes, that's what I make,” Pete says. “Here, have some of this.” He hands Kathy the sandwich. “Puts black olives and green peppers and red onions in it, like a Greek salad. Look inside; it's beautiful. He's a fucking sandwich artist.”
“What else was in that bag?”
“For his dessert,” Pete says, “carefully wrapped in foil to preserve its freshness, there's dough. Lots and lots of well-kneaded dough packaged in various combinations though it all tastes the same, like paper. But that's just the way Mr. Muscle likes it, and I always aim to please.”
Pete pulls into a truck stop so Kathy can go to the bathroom. When she gets back the lunch box is gone.
“Where is it?” she asks.
“Trunk,” Pete says. He takes the pack of Player's plain out of his pocket. Inside are two rows of rollies, neat little twists at the top.
“My dessert,” Pete says. He pulls a joint from the pack, lights it, takes a hit and hands it off to Kathy. She tokes and chokes, the tobacco-hash combo scorching, but a spicy taste lingers, peppery-sweet hashish.
And there it is, the buttery feel of the skin, heartbeat slowed to what's necessary, breath sighing from the lungs, the world an elemental, shimmering, dreamy place.
“Mellow,” she says. The word is all her mouth can hold.
Heading to the highway, the car seems to be going ten miles an hour, though they're traveling the speed limit. Kathy checks and makes Pete laugh. Turning onto the ramp, the tilt of the grade feels extreme. Kathy leans into the turn, leans into the door, leans so hard she thinks she'll pass right through the metal and fall onto the pavement. The tilt seems more extreme as they gain speed. Finally they greet the highway.
“Let's do that again,” Pete says. The exit ramp immediately appears and they round the upward turn, leaning the other way now, leaning and laughing. At the top of the turn, Pete checks traffic and heads down the ramp. “Last time,” he yells and they scream and lean and laugh and howl and just like that, they're on the highway heading home, sitting straight, normal as any Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
She wakes to water droplets pinging against the car, the sprinkler throwing lazy circles over the lawn. Occasional drops come through the window. Kathy rolls it up and slides across the seat to the dry side. She heads for the bathroom. She needs a drink, her mouth is wooly and rank, and she needs to pee.